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Cyclone Goes A-Viking 



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The Haugen Farm 






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I 


H OI-DOOOH! Hoi-dcooh!’’ The clear voice of a boy rang 
out against the snow^clad rocks and mountain sides. 
“Hoi-doooh—doooh—doooh/’ the echoes rebounded 
from every nook and cranny. 

Cyclone was the boy’s name. At least his mother had called 
him so the minute he hurried into this world. His real name was 
Ame. But only important strangers called him that, like school 
teachers and such. 

His father and mother always called him Cyclone. His big 
sister, Tordis, called him Cyclone. And his grandfather, who 
was almost a hundred years old, called him Cyclone. Only Alf, 
his baby brother, did not call him anything whatever. He was 
too small for words as yet. 


[5] 










All together, this family lived on an old, old farm, which 
always and always had been known as the Haugen Farm. Lone- 
somely it perched on the slope of a mountain in the land of 
rocks and water, the Viking country of Norway. 

Right now, knapsack on back. Cyclone was on his way home 
from school. A walk of three miles stretched ahead of him, 
along the slowly ascending road to Haugen Farm. And because 
it was winter and the snow lay deep and powdery. Cyclone had 
a pair of skis fastened to his feet. 

The boy was all bundled up in his woollen togs—mittens, 
scarf, cap, snow stockings, and all. His nose was very red. Just 
two round eyes shone as blue as blue can be. Cyclone’s breath 
came in short puffs of warm air, so cold it was. 

''O—e—oh! Oh—e—oh!” He swung his ski-staffs and light¬ 
ly stuck them into the snow: right staff, left ski; left staff, right ski, 
onward and up the hill. Again and again he made the mountains 
echo with his very own voice: 

''Ho—ee—ho! Ho—ee—ho! Ee—ho, ee—ho!” 

By the time Cyclone reached his home, twilight had fallen, 
although it was barely two o’clock in the afternoon. Icicles hung 
from the low roofs of the farm buildings. Two snow-covered 
boulders, one on top of the other, stood on the north side of the 
yard. Both together, they had the shape of a mighty snowman 
with a cap on. And as Cyclone passed the silent fellow, he 
waved at him, "Hi, Mr. Snowcap!” 

"You do look weird today,” the boy thought to himself, 
"but I mustn’t tell you. Mother said. She said a giant has dumped 
you there so that the north wind cannot blow our house in.” 

"Cyclone! Cyclone! Have you come home?” 


[6] 





Cyclone was on his way home from school 



His mother stuck her head out of the door. But just as 
quickly she drew it back again, ^^hew, it was cold! She would 
not heat the out'of'doors, no, not she! 

In a minute. Mother,” cried Cyclone as he hurried over to 
the storehouse. There he slipped off his skis and his woollens and 
changed his shoes. Then, with a few skipping steps, he entered 
the farmhouse. 

“First it’s too cold and now it’s too hot,” he laughed. His 
cheeks began to glow even before he had closed the kitchen door 
behind him. 

“Good afternoon. Mother,” and Cyclone shook hands with 
her. “May I grind the coffee, please?” 

’Fine,” said Mother, “that gives me time to cut the cake for 
our dessert.” 

So Cyclone thumped down on a high'backed, scoured chair 
and took the coffee mill between his knees. He turned the handle 
as fast as if he had been promised a million pennies for it. 

“Bah—bah—booh!” Lusty howls came from the comer of 
the room. Something—it might have been the coffee mill- 
aroused little Alf from his nap. 

18 ] 



















When the last fragrant bean was ground into bits, Cyclone 
knelt by the ancient oak wood cradle. ''Hi, roly-poly,” he said, 
and grinned down at his little brother. He tickled him under the 
chin and poked him in the ribs, until Alf squealed with delight. 

"Call Father and Tordis and Grandpa, please,” said Mother. 
"Dinner is on the table.” 

Cyclone walked down the front steps of the house. 
'Ta—^ther!” he called, "Tor—dis! Grand—pa! Dinner is ready.” 

So the family enjoyed a meal of Norwegian fishballs, potatoes, 
and buttermilk. 

For a while nothing could be heard but the munch-munch of 
cake eating and the sss-pp of coffee drinking. Perhaps these noises 
should not have been made. But there they were! 

Even before the dessert was finished, it had grown dark in 
the room. Mrs. Haugen lit the wrought-iron lamp that was 
hanging from a beam in the ceiling. And Grandpa sucked the 
rest of his coffee through a lump of sugar which he kept on the 
tip of his tongue. But nobody else did this, only Grandpa, be¬ 
cause he was so very old and because he liked his coffee best that 
way. Little Alf and Cyclone watched him with shining eyes. 








And so the days grew shorter and shorter and the nights 
grew longer and longer. Haugen Farm was as busy a place as 
one could possibly imagine. For Christmas was not far away now. 

The pig and the calf had been made into round, fat sausages, 
and the tongues and pig's feet had been pickled. Newly baked 
cakes and cookies were sleeping in jars and boxes, to wake up on 
Christmas Eve. But the cleaning that had yet to be done! Why, 
scrubbing brushes and water buckets were everywhere. 

''The only ones who don't have a whole lot of work to do 
right now are the chickens and the cows and the goats," said 
Cyclone after the supper dishes had been cleared away. He took 
a book from his knapsack and joined the family around the fire. 
"The chickens don't lay any eggs, and the cows and goats give 
next to no milk." 


[ 10] 




























Cyclone joined the jamily around the fire 











































“Right enough/’ said Mr. Haugen, “but what about the 
pony and the lambs?” Thin twists of smoke rose from his pipe. 
On the floor lay a heap of harness, waiting to be polished and 
mended. Sadly dull and weary looked the heap of harness. Do 
you think the pony and the lambs are earning their living? 

“No'O, not exactly,” Cyclone fumbled. It was an awkward 
question to answer. He took a piece of wood from the pile and 
threw it into the hearth, for he was to be the fireman until bed' 
time. “Oh! Now I know!” His face brightened. “They are 
growing! We are waiting for them to grow up. That’s work too.” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” everyone laughed. Even Grandpa’s carving 
knife gave a little extra jerk. It almost spoiled the birchwood 
spoon on which he was whittling. 

“Zurrrr,” went Tordis’ spinning wheel, “ 2 ;urrr—zzz.” There! 
She had lost her thread again. It was the third time tonight. 

“Tordis, Tordis,” teased Grandpa, “break your thread seven 
times and you will not get married.” 

Tordis blushed to the tips of her ears. “Whatever is the 
matter with me?” she murmured, bending her head very low. 
Of course, she would marry Ole in the spring. There was no 
doubt about it, and the spinning thread had no business to break 
even as much as once. So. She had caught it again. 

“Zurrrr'Zurrrr!” By this time the spinning wheel was be' 
having very well. 

Mrs. Haugen made her knitting needles fly. She had cut off 
the woru'out feet of a red pair of Cyclone’s stockings. And what 
she was trying to do now was to knit new feet on old legs. The 
yam did not quite match, but what of it? Wool is wool, and 
cherry'red wool is as warm as tomatO'red wool. 


[ 12] 


“Grandpa,” Cyclone burst out suddenly, “have you ever been 
at the North Cape?” 

The old man pricked up his ears. “Is it at the North Cape, 
you ask?” Wistfully he shook his head and laid the carving knife 
aside. “The North Cape! No. I never stood on the top of the 
world. But I would have given my soul for a few steps on it. I 
have been a fisherman and a forester and a boat'builder, but 
nothing brought me that far north.” 

“Why didn’t you go, when you wanted to so very, very 
badly?” Cyclone shut his geography reader with a bang, moving 
closer to his grandfather. 

Dense curls of tobacco smoke filled the large kitchen. The 
old man puffed as if his life depended upon it. “Did you ever 
have it this way. Cyclone,” he said, “that you’d much rather have 
gone on a picnic than to school?” 

“Ye^e-e'S.” Cyclone squirmed. “But I went to school any' 
way, because I had to.” 

“That’s the point. You hit the bull in the eye,” cried Grand- 
pa. “Not that the North Cape makes for splendid picnic grounds. 
It’s too cold and rocky and barren. But it happened that my 
work called me south, instead of north to the Arctic Sea.” 
Grandpa sighed. 

“Couldn’t you have gone for the fun of it, just once, maybe 
in vacation time?” Cyclone began to feel sorry for his old 
grandfather. 

“No vacation and no pennies.” Grandpa shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders, “and now it’s too late. Still, I haven’t reached a hundred 
yet. And if a fairy or a giant would pick me up tomorrow and 
say ‘Come, ride with me north’, I assure you I’d follow.” 

[ 13 ] 


''You would, wouldn’t you!” Mr. Haugen spoke from be- 
hind the harness he was polishing. 

"And so would I,” cried Cyclone, delighted, "and then Fd 
see the sun rise at midnight, and Fd watch the birds fly around 
all the daylight-night long!” 

Grandpa’s eyes shone as bright as his grandson’s. "Do you 
know,” he went on, nudging Cyclone lightly, "that the flowers 
of the farthest north do not close their petals in sleep? And that 
rye grows a couple of inches in twenty-four hours? It’s when the 
sun never sets, of course, during the summer. I know, because 
my eldest brother told me many years ago. He had a friend 
whose sister’s son was in the whaling business up there.” 

Cyclone was thinking of what he did and what he did not 
want to do when he was big. More than anything else, he wanted 
to travel toward the Midnight Sun. And most certainly he did 
not want to wait, like Grandpa, until he was almost a hundred 
years old. "When I am big—” he set out and paused. 

His mother looked at him and smiled. "My uncle Eric used 
to live in Hammerfest,” she mused. 

"Oh, Mother!” Cyclone burst out, "in Hammerfest? In the 
most northerly town of the world?” 

"Yes,” replied Mother. "Uncle Eric is a captain on a freighter 
and he has a little girl, your distant cousin. Come to think of it, 
her nickname is Windy. 'If you have a Cyclone, we have a 
Windy,’ Uncle Eric wrote to me many years ago. Windy must 
be about one Norwegian winter younger than you are. Cyclone.” 

"But Mother! Where are they now? In Hammerfest? Why 
don’t I know a thing about them?” 

"That’s where the trouble lies. I haven’t the faintest idea 


[ 14] 



‘'But Mother! Where are they now?'’ 
















slide years ago. She and the child happened to be visiting the 
old folks at the time. It was very sad. Only a do2;en were saved, 
among them Windy. Her father came for her and decided to 
keep her right with him, on the freighter. That is the last I 
heard about them.’’ 

Cyclone swallowed hard. So he had a distant cousin who 
was a sea captain’s daughter and who was one Norwegian winter 
younger than himself. But what was the use, since no one knew 
where she was? "What exactly is a distant cousin. Mother?” he 
asked. "Is it very far away?” 

Mrs. Haugen folded her knitting together, for bedtime had 
arrived. "Oh, yes,” she laughed, "quite far away, at least twice 
around the comer. Your mother s uncle’s child. Now figure it 
out for yourself.” 

Tordis yawned. She had stopped the spinning wheel while 
listening to her mother’s tale. Now she stood up and moved it 
back into its place by the window. Suddenly the whole family 
appeared sleepy. 

"Good night, Mother, Father, Tordis, Grandpa.” 

"Good night. Cyclone. Sleep well.” 

Thanks, the same to you.” 

[ 16 ] 






















Not much more than a twinkling later, the boy lay in his 
box bed upstairs. So far down in between the homespun sheets 
and bulging eider-down puffs he snuggled that nothing but a 
wisp of yellow hair stuck out. 

^'Windy!’’ he murmured with closed eyes. Her father was a 
sea captain in the Northland. And she was—what? A distant 
cousin, at least twice around the comer. Now, how was it? Mother 
had an uncle, and the uncle had—^well—he had Windy of course. 
Cyclone giggled and curled his toes with pleasure. Why, that 
wasn’t hard to figure out! He had it all straight. 

He began to feel warm and co2iy. He crawled out a tiny bit 
from under the eiderdown. The moon peeped in at the small 
window to the left of him. So Cyclone turned over on his right 
side and faced the wall. 

''Going a-viking—” he thought drowsily, and fell asleep. 
































































\ 



'Tour hours left," sang Cyclone this crispy, cold afternoon, 
"then three, then two, then one. And then none!" With that, 
his heart stopped beating for. a second, or else it gave a terrific 
jump. He could not make out which. 

Christmas hung in the air! Under their cloaks of snow the 
trees stood motionless. Away down in the valley, the houses of 
Sundal by the Hardanger Fjord resembled a sugar^frosted toy 
village. 

"Cyclone," called his father from the bam, "how many poles 
do we have out?" 

Cyclone counted them: one, two, three, four—"Five!" he 
shouted across the neatly swept farmyard, "five poles. And we 
do need loads of grain for them." 

"Here you are." Mr. Haugen was carrying a huge armful 
of sheaves of grain. He dropped them on the steps of the store- 
house. 


[ 18] 












^^Keep off, you trolls. Keep off!^^ 






























































Cyclone had gathered these fine, large sheaves during the 
fall, and now they were to make a Christmas dinner for the 
birds. 

“May I pile up a snowdrift by each door. Father? 

“Just what I wanted to ask of you,” laughed Father. ' Then 
ril come after you with the poles.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” Cyclone beamed with the excitement of his 
task. “The first one by the farmhouse door,” he decided. So he 
set to shoveling and scraping and building a nice, tall drift. “And 
the next one by the storehouse, and one by the bakehouse, and 
one by the bam, and one by the stable.” 

At last the birds’ Christmas feast was ready. Now they 
need do nothing but arrive and eat. The always hungry magpies 
would be the first to come, no doubt. 

At this moment Tordis mshed by and disappeared into the 
stable. There she would feed the cattle an extra meal, and she 
would give them salt from a horn. Without these treats they 
might forget to be good, obedient cows and goats and sheep on 
the mountain pasture next summer. 

Mr. Haugen brought a mighty paint pot and a long, fat brush 
with him from the tool shed. He handed them to Cyclone. “Now 
I must attend to the fire in the bakehouse. If I don’t hurry, there 
won’t be hot water enough for all of us to take a bath before 
dinner. I’ll leave the painting of the doors to you, young man.” 

Cyclone was more than pleased, because this made him feel 
important. Into the inky paint he dipped the big, coarse bmsh. 
It came out coahblack, drippp! With a wide artistic swing he 
painted a circle on the wooden door of the stable, and then a 
cross inside of the circle. 


[20] 


Keep off, you trolls,” he whispered, ''keep off, keep off!” 

Surely no troll would brave the sign of the cross and circle. 
And so the cattle would be protected against illness and other 
mishaps during the new year. 

Four crosses inside of four circles Cyclone had painted on 
the doors of four little wooden farm buildings. And then his 
job was finished. Keep off, you trolls, keep off, keep off! 

"If things are not safe behind those doors, my name is Peter,” 
Cyclone thought, satisfied. At the same time he hoped that no 
troll would be anywhere near him. For trolls were famous for 
guessing people’s thoughts and were easily offended! 

He hastened his steps and entered the bake^and^bath house. 
In the big tin tub he scrubbed himself clean and rosy all over, 
with plenty of soap and hot water. 

Dressed in his blue and yellow holiday togs. Cyclone soon 
appeared in the kitchen. "Um^m,” he sniffed, "it smells of pig, 
I mean of pork. Um-m!” 

"Short ribs it is,” explained Grandpa from his bench beside 
the fire, "yes, sir, short ribs of pork.” 

"Hm^m,” gurgled Alf, who was riding on Grandpa’s knee. 
He clapped his hands and laughed, "Hm-m, hm^m.” 

Mrs. Haugen and Tordis kept running back and forth, back 
and forth. Old, old wooden cups and bowls and plates they placed 
on the table. As if they knew they were the family treasures, 
these dishes stood up with an air of haughtiness and pride. 

"I suppose that honest-to'goodness Vikings ate and drank 
from such big things.” Cyclone studied them with due respect. 
"The Vikings must have had enormous appetites. I wonder what 
they ate and drank from them?” The mere thought made his 


mouth water. '"When are we going to eat, Mother?” he asked. 

"Right this minute. Please, be seated at the table, all of you.” 

Mr. Haugen opened the huge black Bible and read aloud 
from the story of the Christ Child. It was not easy for Cyclone 
to keep his mind where it belonged. The whiffs of holiday food 
were almost more than he could stand. Little Alf said, "Ta-ta-ta,” 
and Grandpa had to whisper "Sh-h-h” into his ear. 

But at last the feasting began. And how the family ate, 
especially Cyclone! There wasn’t a dish that he left untouched. 
He started out with a piece from the tall pile of flat bread, and 
then he helped himself to a slice of spiced rye bread. A bit of 
butter he cut from the roll that weighed twenty pounds, and a 
bit of goat’s milk cheese he cut from the huge brown square on 
the center of the table. The goat’s milk cheese was covered with 
a hand-embroidered napkin. 

After these snacks. Mother served fish and then short ribs 
of pork and potatoes. 

"Um-m,” Cyclone sniffed again, "I think that nothing in the 
world smells better than roasted pig. Do you, Tordis?” 

"Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,” she answered playfully. 

Cyclone reached for one of the golden fried cakes on the 
tray. "Why are these called Poor Man’s Pastry?” he asked. 

"Don’t you know?” twinkled Tordis. "It’s Poor Man’s 
Pastry because there are only eighteen eggs in it, and two pounds 
of sugar, and a pound of butter; oh, and a cup of punch.” Her 
eyes sparkled. "Some day I’ll bake a Rich Man’s Pastry, with a 
quarter of an egg in it, and a pinch of sugar, and a dram of 
butter, and a thimble full of punch.” 

Finally, there was nothing left to be eaten, except the dessert 

[ 22 ] 



y. Hdugcfi opened the hu^e black Bible and tead aloud 




















































of rice pudding with cinnamon and sugar on it. And there was 
an end to that too. One whole almond was hidden in the pud- 
ding. Whoever found it would be the first one to get married. 

Mrs. Haugen dipped a wooden spoon with a curved handle 
into the birchwood bowl. She helped herself to a spoonful of the 
pudding and put it into her little porridge dish. Then she passed 
the bowl around. 

''Hi! What's this?" cried Cyclone of a sudden. He grew 
hot and red all over. 

"Now we know what's on your mind, young man!" 

It was a grand joke for everyone. Cyclone thought so too. 
He chewed on his almond long and heartily. Tordis chuckled. 
No one knew how glad she was to have been spared the almond. 
She had been teased enough lately, she thought. 

"Well, thanks for the meal." Mr. Haugen rose and marched 
into the parlor. 

"Thanks for the meal. Thanks for the meal!" 

"I am glad that you enjoyed it," smiled Mrs. Haugen. 









IV 

In the middle of the parlor stood a tall Norwegian pine. 
The branches of the pine tree were laden with lighted wax 
candles. Candle light shone from every comer of the room, and 
the floor was covered with juniper twigs and various presents. 
For this was Christmas Eve. 

“Oh,” gasped Cyclone, “Oh-h!” He looked at a separate 
pile. Were these glorious things really his? It seemed to be 
that way. Mother had knit a blue sweater for him, with a 
border of reindeer at the bottom, and Tordis a pair of mittens 
to match. Grandpa had carved the proudest little boat, with both 
oars and sails. But his father! His father had made a violin for 
the boy—a tme Hardanger fiddle, with a carved body and a 
dragon’s head for a scroll! 

Cyclone felt as if he must jump out of his boots for joy. 
And while Grandpa tried on his new fur-lined slippers, and 
Mother her embroidered apron, and Tordis her silver brooch, 
and Alf his woolly red cap, and while Father admired a new 
tobacco pouch. Cyclone explored his Hardanger fiddle. 

[25 ] 



''It’s almost nicer than yours, Father. Yours has only 
four steel strings under the finger board, and mine has six.” 

Mr. Haugen looked straight at his eager son. "You have 
a line ear for music,” he reflected. "On your own instrument you 
should play even better than on mine.” 

"How about a bit of singing now?” Mrs. Haugen proposed. 
"Cyclone has many tomorrows left for his fiddle.” 

Nothing could be said against this. So Cyclone joined hands 
with the others, and they all danced around the tree, singing 
Christmas carols. Grandpa sang the loudest and danced the mer¬ 
riest around and around the tall Norwegian pine. Was he almost 
a hundred years old? 

"Tap—tap—tap!” Knocks at the door! "Tap—tap—^tap!” 
At the same moment five masked figures rushed into the room. 
"A merry Christmas to you,” they called out. 

"Who are you?” cried Cyclone boldly. "Where do you 
hail from?” 

"From under the earth and from inside the mountains. We 
are brownies and fairies and trolls,” was the gruesome reply. 

Cyclone shook his head. "They are people from Sundal, of 
course. But I do wish most awfully they would not hide their 
real voices. Who can they be?” 

He never found out. For Tordis passed cake around, and 
horns and wooden cups that were filled with Christmas punch. 
As this was all they had wanted, the merrymakers disappeared 
as fast as they had come. 

Little Alf lay sound asleep in his cradle. No amount of noise 
could have awakened him. In his chubby fist he clutched the 
woolly red cap. 



''A merry Christmas to you'' they called out 






















































’’'’Well, let’s blow the lights out,” suggested Mr. Haugen. 
“We must be up bright and early tomorrow morning, for church. 

’■'‘That’s what I was thinking,” yawned Grandpa, so I say 
good night.” 

“Good night. Good night. Grandpa.” 

“Huff—puff—huff!” Cyclone filled his cheeks with so much 
air that he looked like an angel blowing a trumpet. He blew out 
light after light, until the lonely fat candle in the window was 
the only one left burning. To any wanderer, this was the sign 
of welcome for shelter and food at Haugen Farm. 

Cyclone pressed his nose against the pane. Just outside, the 
lonely Christmas candle cast a kindly patch of brightness. Far 
away in the distance a rippling curtain was hanging from the 
sky. Flickering reds and yellows and greens were moving across 
the heavens. Those were the Northern Lights! 

“Here is a bowl of porridge for the Christmas Brownie,” 
called Mrs. Haugen. “Please, put it under the small table. 
Cyclone.” 

“And I am going to hide the brooms away in the closet,” 
whispered Tordis. “Have the witches ride their own or perhaps 
other people’s, but not ours.” 

“It’s so still everywhere.” Mrs. Haugen shuddered. “Not 
a soul abroad but brownies and witches and such folk.” 

Tordis tried a smile. “Perhaps they fell asleep, for once? 
I wonder how Ole is today, in his forest hut!” 

Cyclone glanced at her quickly. “Next Christmas—” He 
got no further. “Listen! I hear something. Sleigh bells!” 

Sleigh bells! Sleigh bells! Sleigh bells! Huddled together, the 
little family stared out of the window. They could see nothing. 


[ 28 ] 


But the muffled sound of bells came nearer and nearer, “Ting^ling, 
jing'ting.” 

“Who on earth would venture out on such a night,” Mr. 
Haugen mumbled, “and so far off the beaten track as Haugen 
Farm?” 

“I can’t hear it any more,” cried Cyclone, terribly excited. 
“The sleigh must have stopped in our yard! I want to go out 
and see.” 

“No, Cyclone, I’ll go,” said Mr. Haugen soberly, “you stay 
right here.” He snatched his jacket from the hook and went out. 

The bells resumed their ting'ling sounds, and the horses’ 
hoofs their clop'clop'clop. Then they died away altogether. 

Into the kitchen stepped a tall, broad man and a young girl. 
Mr. Haugen closed the door behind them. “Welcome to Haugen 
Farm on Christmas Eve.” 

“Come and warm yourselves by the fire.” Mrs. Haugen’s 
voice quivered. 

Tordis busied herself to prepare refreshments for the stran¬ 
gers. Guests on Christmas Eve, she thought. Like a couple of 
giant snowflakes they snowed into the house. Who might they 
be? 

Cyclone planted himself in front of the girl. “I’ll hang up 
your togs for you,” he offered. “What’s your name?” 

He had hardly asked his question when Mrs. Haugen threw 
her hands together in a burst of recognition. “Eric,” she cried, 
drawing him to the lamp. “Uncle Eric! Is it you or is it your 
ghost?” 

Her eyes lit up with delight as she turned to the girl. The 
merest tip of a nose she saw, then three independent freckles 


[ 29 ] 


sitting sidewise on the tip, between two rosy, dimpled cheeks. 
''And you are Windy!’’ 

Cyclone was so astonished that he almost toppled over back- 
wards. Surely, he must be dreaming? That’s what he used to do 
in the middle of the night. 

But Windy slipped off her coat and her cap and mittens and 
handed them to the boy. "They are wet and nasty,” she smiled. 

"That’s all right,” grinned Cyclone. Stiffly, he hung the 
clothes over the back of a chair to dry by the fire. 

"Windy is frightfully tired from the long journey,” her father 
ventured. "If you could please excuse her—” 

"Bless her heart,” cried Mrs. Haugen, "the poor child! I’ll 
bring her a cup of hot milk to her bed.” 

It took but a minute to fix up the lower one of the bunk-beds 
in the parlor wall. There Windy was to sleep, in the company 
of the tall Norwegian pine and the lonely fat candle. 

"Good night. Windy. God’s peace and a merry Christmas to 
you,” Cyclone called after her. And to himself he said, "My 
distant cousin, twice around the comer.” 

By the hearth stood his Uncle Eric, the captain, nodding 
and smiling and twisting his whiskers. 

"I must be dreaming after all,” decided Cyclone. 







Early on Christmas morning, when the stars were still out. 
Captain Eric with Cyclone and Windy set out for church. They 
each carried a lighted torch, so dark it was. A huge snowplow 
worked its way through the drifts ahead, sputtering and spewing 
clouds of snow. 

“Splendid road for walking.” Captain Eric wore heavy 
nailed boots. His steps were short and firm. “This is better than 
a sleigh ride.” 

“But Grandpa and Alf couldn’t walk to Sundal if they wanted 
to,” ventured Cyclone. “It’s good we have a sleigh for them, and 
sometimes for us, too.” 

“Besides, the snowplow is our luck,” reminded Windy. 

“That’s what those monsters are made for, now, aren’t-they?” 

“Yes, but they needn’t be where we are,” teased Windy, 
“and then they are not our luck, exactly.” 

[ 31 ] 







“Ah, me!” exclaimed her father, “you are thinking of yes' 
terday, I presume?” 

“Indeed, I am!” 

Cyclone’s eyes wandered from one to the other and back 
again. “What happened yesterday?” 

“You may well ask, young man,” said Captain Eric. “It has 
to do with our arrival at Haugen Farm. We would have come 
by honest daylight, hadn’t the fog and ice on the fjords delayed 
us in the first place. And then, to top it off, we were caught in a 
snowstorm. Why, the horse wouldn’t budge, nor the sleigh. The 
driver had to shovel his way for over a mile.” 

“A snowplow just ahead of us would have been handy, you 
see,” said Windy and glanced at Cyclone. 

“Yes, but where did you come from altogether? And why—” 

“Straight from the port of Bergen,” Captain Eric hastened to 
explain. “Seven captains we had on board, as passengers. I was 
one of them. They all were heading home for the hoUdays, except 
the child and me. Said Windy, ‘Father, I am tired of spending 
Christmases on board an old rig. Give me a cow and a goat to 
feed, and I’ll be happy. Please, let’s go on land, somewhere— 
cinywhere.’ So I racked my brain to think of a homelike place 
where we could come in gladly without a speck of warning.” 

“And with a bang he thought of Haugen!” concluded Windy. 
“What do you say to that?” 

“I say thank you,” answered Cyclone promptly. 

“Clop'clop'clop, jangle'jangk'jangle.” The Haugen sleigh 
had caught up with the three walkers. 

“Hullo, hullo!” waved Grandpa, Father, Mother, and little 
Alf. 


[ 32 ] 


“They will be there before us,” cried Cyclone, “and they 
mustn’t. Let’s hurry.” 

The pony slowed up a bit, and the walkers hurried a bit. So 
the whole family arrived together at the little white church of 
Sundal. 

Inside, the little white church was decorated with hundreds 
of pine twigs and fir branches. Two huge Christmas trees stood 
sentry, proud and silent. The menfolk sat at the left, and the 
womenfolk sat at the right of the aisle. The service proved a 
long and festive one. And it was as gay as it was solemn. The 
many babies and small children did their best to make the occasion 
a gay one, and the parson did his best to make it a solemn one. 

Before the homeward journey started, there was no end of 
handshaking. “God’s peace and a merry Christmas to you!” 
Cyclone wondered just how often he spoke the wish, maybe a 
hundred, or maybe two hundred times. 

An eager clop'clop of horses’ hoofs filled the air, and a 
light'hearted jingle of bells. 

“Good'bye,” waved Tordis from the sleigh, “dinner will be 
ready when you arrive.” 

“Splendid,” cried Captain Eric, “I am as himgry as a bear.” 

“So are we,” shouted Cyclone and Windy. Briskly they 
stamped their way up the slippery slope. 

“Hoo'wee-e!” A toboggan whizzed by toward the valley, 
and another, and another. 

Windy stood still to gaze back of her. “Do you have a 
toboggan. Cyclone?” 

“Do I!” puffed Cyclone, “and skates and skis and anything 
you like.” 


''Come on, children.’’ Captain Eric beat his hands together. 
A pair of woollen mittens could not keep them warm.. "The 
wind blows icily.” 

"Isn’t it much colder where you come from?” Cyclone was 
puzzled. 

"Yes, sir, but a fellow dresses warmer, too. Two pairs of 
socks, two pairs of pants, well, in short, two of everything.” 

"Oh-h"h!” cried Windy at this moment, "look at them!” 
She pointed at a little frozen lake. Boys and girls were skating 
on the lake. Some of them were playing hockey. Wildly they 
dashed over the ice, carrying bent sticks and driving a ball. 

"If I only had my skates with me,” sighed Windy. "I wish 
that I could skate this minute.” 

"Let’s go over and watch them,” Cyclone proposed. 

"Cyclone and Windy!” cried Captain Eric in dismay. "Here 
we said we were as hungry as bears, and now what happens?” 
Still, he bravely trudged after the excited children. 

A pale sun was breaking through the clouds. Three pairs 
of eyes followed the skaters on the lake. 

"They’re doing nicely,” observed Captain Eric dryly. 

"Do you know the girl in yellow?” asked Windy. "She is 
not skating now. Do you think, oh Cyclone, do you think she’d 
lend me her skates for just the shortest while?” 

"It’s Elsa. I’ll ask her.” Cyclone cupped his mouth in his 
hands. "El-sa^a-'a!” he shouted, "Elsa!” 

The girl twirled around: "What?” 

It did not take long to explain what was wanted. And it 
did not take long either before Windy could be seen sailing off 
over the mirrordike surface, with Elsa’s skates on her feet. 


[ 34 ] 



Three pairs of eyes followed the skaters on the lake 





















































Cyclone held his breath. Was this Windy? Windy who 
wanted a cow and a goat to feed? “Oh!” he whispered. “Oh'h!” 

Light as a spirit, Windy glided over the ice—forward, back' 
ward and sidewise. She skipped and she swirled, and she danced. 

In wonder the other skaters drew aside, forming a huge 
ring around Windy. “Who is she?” their eyes said, “she must 
be a foreigner in Hardanger.” 


“She has music in her, the child has,” thought her father. 
“Snow and ice and cows and goats and everything there is for 
her on land, but nothing on the sea.” 










Windy was rocking little Alf to nap by the kitchen hearth. 
She was singing away merrily because she felt so sad. Her song 
was a lullaby, but it sounded like a fairy dance. 

Cyclone watched her out of gloomy eyes. The steel strings 
of his fiddle droned. He too felt sad, because tomorrow Windy 
would be gone. "“We must not miss the winter sports at Oslo,” 
her father had explained. 

“Will you write me a letter from Oslo?” Cyclone sighed 
loudly, and the fiddle strings sighed softly. 

Windy shook her head with much decision. “No!” 

“Beg pardon?” Cyclone did not believe his ears. “Why not?” 
“Because I do not want to go away.” Windy’s eyes dimmed. 
“I do so want to stay on the farm with the cows and goats and 
you and your mother and everybody else. Oh, what can we 
do to make me stay here? Father is used to having me with him, 

but he cannot know how much I like it here.” 

[ 37 ] 

























Hot and cold shivers trickled down Cyclone’s spine. What 
on earth was a fellow to do with a girl who begged his advice? 
''Let me think,” he frowned, "let me think.” A hundred tiny 
spinning wheels zurred in his head. "She wants to stay on the 
farm, and I—I have an idea!” he shouted. "I know most exactly 
what to do.” 

"What? What? Tell me, please. Tell me!” 

Cyclone straightened up. "You like to stay on the farm, and 
I like to go awiking. So you stay, and I go away. See?” 

Windy did not see. "You are not me, and I am not you.” 
She had grave doubts. 

But Cyclone had no doubts whatever. "I am going to have 
a talk,” he announced and marched out of the door. Windy scur¬ 
ried after him. 

Outside, the snowdrifts lay so high that the farm buildings 
reminded one of soft, white bumps. The grown-ups were hard 
at work digging a tunnel toward the stable. 

"Uncle Eric,” shouted Cyclone, "don’t your arms ache yet? 
I mean, won’t you come in soon?” 

"We simply must talk with you,” added Windy, jumping 
up and down. "It is important.” 

"Oh, really?” 

"Go ahead,” and Mr. Haugen gave him a friendly push. 
"We’re too many here anyway. Too many cooks spoil the 
porridge.” 

"Quite a snow-porridge, if you ask me,” laughed Captain 
Eric, as he put his shovel aside. 

Back in the kitchen. Cyclone drew three chairs to the 
hearth, one for Windy, one for her father and one for himself. 


[ 38 ] 



The grown-ups were hard at work digging a tunnel 








































































Captain Eric wanned his hands over the fire. ""Any toes 
pinching?’’ This was an invitation. ""Out with it! I am all 
ears.” 

Windy gazed at Cyclone, and Cyclone gazed at Windy. 
Uneasily the boy wiggled on his chair. He cleared his throat. 
Just how would he tell what he wanted to tell his uncle, the 
captain? ""Couldn’t you leave Windy on the farm and take me 
with you, please?” he blurted out. ""I’d like to go awiking, and 
Windy’d like to stay on the farm. See?” 

Captain Eric twisted and twisted his whiskers around and 
around his fingers. So here was his little girl who should have 
been a farmer’s daughter, but wasn’t. And there was the boy 
who should have been a skipper’s son, but wasn’t. 

At last Captain Eric stopped twisting his whiskers. He had 
made a grim decision. ""I shall go off with less baggage than I 
expected,” he announced, facing Windy. ""Perhaps the folks 
will let you work your way here until summer. I shall speak to 
them about it.” 

""Thank you. Father,” said Windy brightly. ""Then I’ll learn 
to spin yam, and I’ll knit stockings for you, and weave you 
handkerchiefs, and put Hardanger embroidery on—oh, on shirts 
Tor you. Cyclone has never been in Oslo anyway, and—” 

""I shall go off alone!” her father’s rolling voice broke in. 

Cyclone’s face fell several inches. Alone? But at least it 
would be more fun with Windy on the farm than without her. 

Captain Eric watched him from the comer of one eye. 
""Why do you look so gloomy? You have many years ahead of 
you, don’t you?’' 

""Yes, sir!” Cyclone tried to smile. 


[ 40 ] 


And anyway, what can you do to work your way, young 
man? Captain Eric wrinkled his brows. ‘‘‘‘Can you brush a 
captain s uniform and put his room in order? And can you comb 
his hair and twirl his whiskers?’’ 

The boy’s eyes grew as round as soup plates. ''N-no, sir.” 
Captain Eric jerked forward in his chair. "'Or can you hold 
a tray of dishes when it storms, and not spill the beans? Or can 
you polish knives and forks and porthole frames?” 

‘‘"No, sir,” Cyclone whispered hoarsely. 

""I thought you couldn’t.” Captain Eric half hid his eyes 
under his lids. ""There isn’t much the young man can do, is 
there? Oh! I have it. Surely, your mother has taught you to 
peel potatoes in the curly pigtail style?” 

""In what?” Cyclone asked hopelessly. 

A giggle from Windy and a snort from his uncle were the 
answers. And then the girl burst into ripples of laughter. 
""Father! You are spinning yams! Cyclone looks as miserable as 
a wet poodle. He doesn’t understand—” 

""Sh-h! The sooner he understands the better. Besides, I 
am not spinning now.” Captain Eric twirled his whiskers into 
proud and happy shapes. ""Po-ta-toes!” he said dreamily. ""From 
messboy in the kitchen to captain of a ship, that is my story. It 
all began with the lowly potato. My, it was fun to see the peel 
come off so fast and curly! Fast as the wind and curly as a pig’s 
tail, Windy’s mother used to say. Well—” 

He turned to the boy. ""Cheer up. Cyclone. My bones are 
telling me that we will speak of this again some day. A couple 
of years will give you time for brushing up on things.” 



And so it came about that Captain Eric went away alone 
and that Windy stayed on the farm. There was work a-plenty 
for her, to be sure. But today it was play, for she and Cyclone 
were ready to leave for the Boys’ Ski Jumping Contest. 

A fresh, cold whiff of air clung to them as they stepped 
into the kitchen from the hall. The little nails under their shoes 
were clicking noisily. 

''Here is your knapsack,” said Mrs. Haugen. "I have packed 
enough food into it for a picnic. Have a fine run, and good luck 
with the contest. Cyclone. Take care of yourselves, the two 
of you!” 

''We will! We will!” cried Windy excited. She helped 
Cyclone strap the knapsack on his back. "Farewell, farewell.” 

Outside the children put their skis on. The sky was blue and 
the sun shone warm. The powdery snow glimmered like billions 
of stars. 


[ 42 ] 









Cyclone and Windy ivere skiing downhill 











































Cyclone and Windy were skiing downhill at a fast straight 
run. In between and around rocks and trees they glided, their 
eyes fixed on the blue distance. Over snow-covered fields they 
raced, always and always looking ahead. Sleepy, tucked-away 
farmhouses and ancient watermills peered at them in surprise. 

By a frozen pond they stopped. “Crunch,’’ said Cyclone’s 
skis, as the edges cut hard into the snow, and “Crunch,” said 
Windy’s skis. Boys and girls were skating on the pond. 

“Oh!” exploded Windy, “let’s have a picnic now! We are 
hungry enough.” So she took her skis off, and Cyclone took 
his ofF. Then they laid the four long skis side by side on the 
snow for a place to sit on. 

“Close your eyes and open your mouth.” Windy’s hand 
dived into a paper bag and out she pulled a beautiful brown 
gingerbread cow! Tail first, it jumped into Cyclone’s round red 
mouth. “Yum-yum,” he said and opened his eyes. 

Another gingerbread cow jumped, head first, into Windy’s 
own red mouth. “Oh, here is some ham, and cheese, and flat' 
bread, and potato salad.” 

And while Cyclone and Windy had a gay time picnicking, 
the boys and girls on the pond had a gay time skating. 

“Shall we give them the rest of our gingerbread cows?” 
asked Windy. “Do say yes!” 

Cyclone eagerly agreed. “Watch out,” he shouted toward 
the pond, “catch it. Something is flying through the air.” 

Whereupon Windy flung the paper bag with gingerbread 
cows into the jumble of outstretched arms. Oh’s and ah’s and 
thank you’s filled the air as she and Cyclone fastened on their 
skis and sailed off again. 


[ 44 ] 


After a while a scramble of single and double ski tracks 
lined the snow. To the left lay the village of Sundal and to the 
right rose a frowning mountain. Toward the frowning mourn 
tain sped Cyclone and Windy. 

''Wedl be climbing you, big fellow," cried Cyclone. 

''—whether you like it or not," added Windy. 

So there they were! Up and up the mountain, up and up. 
The slope became steeper and steeper. 

“Hi," called Cyclone, “I can’t run straight any more." 

“Neither can I," laughed Windy. So the two small skiers 
began 2;ig2;agging up and up the mountain. After a while the 
traces they left in the snow looked like the steps of a ladder. 
And after yet another while they looked like a huge herring¬ 
bone. 

“Ho, a spill!" And even before he knew it. Cyclone had 
fallen uphill. “Just a little sit-me-down," he sputtered and stood 
on his skis again. 

Boys and girls with red cheeks and shining eyes popped up, 
much like mushrooms growing on snow. “Ho! Hullo!" they 
called to one another, “going to jump?" 

At last the top of the height was reached. A great buzz, of 
excitement huhg in the air because of the contest that had been 
arranged. Only boys of Cyclone’s age were allowed to enter. 

“I am going to try my luck," grinned Cyclone, as he skipped 
off together with a host of other boys to register. A large white 
bib was tied over his chest and on it smiled a large black number. 
The number was One, and Cyclone was well pleased. Somehow 
it reminded him of his birthday, when the calendar at home 
showed such a One all day long. 


[ 45 ] 


'1 am going to be the first one. Just wait until I jump right 
over your head,’’ he teased Windy. ''I suppose you’ll squeal like 
anything.” 

“I won’t say peep, not even if you land on top of me instead 
of at the bottom of the hill.” Windy joined the crowd that 
moved down the slope. They were to be the onlookers. "‘Good 
luck,” she waved to Cyclone, "Very good luck.” 

The group of boys assembled on the summit. Away down 
the hillside the judges’ box was built, and close by a wooden 
platform. The platform was to be the taking-off point for the 
jumping itself. 

""Booo'ooo'hooh.” A man on skis blew a shining bugle. It 
was the signal for Boy Number One to start. 

And because Cyclone was Boy Number One, he now took 
his heart in both hands. In another instant he came down the 
slope faster than the wind. He clenched his fists and bent his 
knee^, for he was nearing the platform. And then, as if diving 
into the sea. Cyclone bounded forward into space. With both 
skis close together, he landed at the bottom and continued run¬ 
ning on level ground. He wheeled around. 

""Hurrah! Hurrah!” The crowd burst into cheering and 
clapping hands. ""Bravo! Hurrah!” For Cyclone had made a 
long and graceful jump. 

Boys jumped in quick succession, numbers two, three, four, 
five, six, and many more. Boy Number Three had a sprawling, 
funny spill, and Number Five wobbled on his legs after landing. 
""Ha, ha, ha. Bravo. Ha, ha, ha,” cheered the onlookers. Some 
of the boys took fine, big leaps, but none so fine and big as 
Cyclone’s. 


[ 46 ] 



And then Cyclone bounded forward into space 





If no one was exactly sure of this, the judges found out soon 
enough. They drew their measuring sticks and put them aside 
again. They nodded their wise, important heads and talked and 
whispered together. “Number One first prize, no doubt,” they 
agreed. 

A minute later, the announcer fired off his message: “Num- 
ber ONE! Arne Haugen! Champion of the Sundal Jumping 
Contest!” 

“That’s me!” Cyclone raised his head above the crowd, but 
just as quickly he ducked it under again. “It’s a mistake, of 
course,” he faltered. 

“No mistake! We do not make mistakes, believe it or not.” 
The judges shook hands with a most excited boy. “CongratU' 
lations, young man. Allow the Ski Club to present you with 
first prize.” 

When Cyclone saw the prize, his eyes began to glitter like 
the Northern Lights. A watch for his own! A real, shiny silver 
watch, on a shiny silver chain, and from the silver chain dangled 
a tiny man on skis! 

“Oh boy, oh boy,” beamed Cyclone, “a watch to go a-viking 
with!” 





VIII 

''Mouther,” called Cyclone one sunny morning toward the 
end of April, ''Mother! where are you?’’ 

"He-re,” came the answer, "at the bakehouse.” 

A minute later Cyclone stood on the doorway of the little 
wooden bakehouse. "Um,” he sniffed, "I smell cream^homs.” 

"Right you are,” laughed Mrs. Haugen, "cream-homs for 
dessert today.” Exciting shapes of paper-thin cookie dough were 
spread on the board. 

"I am finished with my work,” said Cyclone. "All the pails 
in the kitchen are filled with water. And we’ll have potatoes in 
their jackets for dinner, you said. So I need not peel any.” 

'"You do not seem to be sorry either,” twinkled Mrs. Hau¬ 
gen, "and neither am I.” 

"Mother, what I wanted to ask you is: may I go for a walk 
to Bondhus Lake, please? And may Windy go with me?” 

[49 ] 




















“Yes, indeed, you may go, both of you,” replied Mother. 
“Windy is nearly working her head off these days. Take her for 
a long outing. Here are some rye wafers to nibble on the way. 
They are still warm from the oven.” 

“Um, thank you. Mother.” 

So Cyclone ran off to find Windy. “Windy! Windy!” he 
called. 

“Here I am.” She stuck her blond head through the door 
of the stable, a dripping scrubbing brush in her hand. “I am 
rinsing the milk cans.” 

“I want to take you for a walk,” Cyclone announced grand' 
ly, “for a long one. My fiddle is going too.” 

“Ooooh! I’ll be ready in no time.” Windy began rushing 
about in between tin milk cans and wooden buckets, like a real 
whirlwind. Then she washed her face and her hands under the 
pump. And then she skipped into the house to put on fresh 
clothes. 

Meanwhile, Cyclone was pacing up and down, up and 
down in front of the rocky giant, Snowcap. Smooth white 
patches were clinging to the boulders, in spite of spring and 
sunshine. “Funny,” thought Cyclone, “that the snow doesn’t 
care to melt off Mr. Snowcap, like ’most everywhere else around 
here.” 

There came Windy running, interrupting Cyclone’s tr ailin g 
thoughts. Her wide blue skirt was bulging. Over her left arm 
hung a little yellow basket. And in the basket lay four knitting 
needles, together with a ball of yam. 

“These must be finished soon, and I am going to knit if I 
find a chance,” Windy explained, when she and Cyclone were 


[ 50 1 



“Oooohl I’ll be ready in no time” 





















































out on the road. “Brand new stockings for you to wear on 
Tordis’ wedding day.” A dimple crept into her right cheek, and 
another one into her left cheek. “Won’t your legs have fun to 
be dressed in white from top to toe?” 

“I don’t know,” said Cyclone dryly. He pulled his silver 
watch from his pocket and gazed at it with pride. “Well, we 
have plenty of time. Let’s walk to Bondhus Lake.” 

“Could we row on it, if we wanted to?” asked Windy, as 
she briskly kept pace with Cyclone, up, up, up the narrow road 
of the valley of Sundal. 

“We can’t do it ourselves. But if Sven Olsen is there, he’ll 
row us across for nothing.” 

“Who is Sven Olsen?” Windy had to raise her voice, be¬ 
cause of the roaring waterfall to the left. 

“Don’t you know?” Cyclone thought that everybody must 
know. “He is my friend. He rows people across the lake. Last 
summer he took me with him at least a hundred, or maybe a 
thousand times. He rowed, and I played on his fiddle.” Cyclone 
stared at the lofty cliffs. “You know what Sven Olsen told me? 
He told me he’d rather listen to a Hardanger fiddle any day than 
to a wife and seven children.” 

“Has he a wife and seven children?” 

“No,” said Cyclone, “he hasn’t. He only has a Hardanger 
fiddle.” 

This was too much for Windy. She gave Cyclone one long 
glance and hastened her steps. “This Sven Olsen, he needs a 
talking'to!” 

But when the children arrived at the lake, no Sven Olsen 
was to be seen, nor anybody else. Cyclone shook cind shook at 


[ 52 ] 


the door of the tiny hut, until he had almost shaken it in. ''No" 
body home, I guess,’’ he said. ’’'“Too cold, I suppose.” 

”Too cold, I s’pose,” said Windy, ''for a talking-to!” 

And so, because they could not cross the lake, they sat down 
on the stony step of the little hut. Windy started to knit. 

''Want a rye wafer?” asked Cyclone. 

''If you can spare me one,” chuckled Windy. "Please, have 
one yourself.” The two ate like hungry birds from the delicious 
wafers. 

Cyclone took his fiddle. And as he played. Windy closed 
her eyes. She saw a picture of gra 2 ;ing cows and sheep and goats, 
high on a mountain pasture. And she heard the songs of fairies 
and of water nixies. Bells were clanging, and a thrush was trilling. 
Cyclone played the song of a brownie, and another one of a troll. 

Then the fiddle burst into wild and fiery sounds. The dron- 
ing music of the bagpipes it resembled. 

Windy opened her eyes and held her ears. "Don’t spoil it 
all,” she cried. "Now you are noisy!” 

Cyclone dropped his bow and laughed aloud. "It’s the 
trolls who are noisy, not me!” 

"And the Bondhus Lake is noisy, too,” teased Windy. 

"And the waterfalls are noisier yet,” added Cyclone. But 
of a sudden he grew serious. He nudged Windy with his elbow 
and pointed at the mighty Bondhus Glacier across the lake. 
"Have you ever seen such a one nearby?” 

Windy nodded. "I have seen the Blackdce Glacier, north 
of the Arctic Circle. That’s the third largest one in Europe, and 
it stands with its feet in the sea. Hoooh!” Windy shuddered. 
"Glaciers give me the creeps.” 


[53 ] 


''Why?'’ Cyclone was just then imagining how much bigger 
and better a river of ice would be away, 'way up north. 

"Hoooh!" Windy shuddered again. "They crawl! And 


they groan! And they like to swallow people who walk on them. 


Let's go home." 

"Windy," thought Cyclone, "Windy is not the kind to go 
awiking. But I am! I am!" And somehow this made him bubble 
over with joy for himself. He looked at his watch, dangling 
the silver man on skis this way and that. "Forty-seven minutes 
and a half until dinner time," he shouted, "and cream-homs for 
dessert! Come, Windy, quick." He pulled her by the sleeve. 

"Oooh'h," laughed Windy, "please don't hurry me. My 
basket and my knitting! There they are lying asleep in the sun." 

So Cyclone grabbed the basket, knitting, fiddle and all, rac^ 
ing Windy home, home, to the farm. 










IX 

"'That’s fine to have you for my mail carriers,” said Tordis 
a week later to Cyclone and Windy. "It will save me much 
time. I shall give you each a penny whenever you bring me a 
letter, and I shall give you each a nickel whenever you bring me 
a package.” 

Tordis’ eyes sparkled, because she thought of letters and 
packages. Cyclone and Windy’s eyes sparkled too, because they 
thought of pennies and nickels. 

"Thank you, Tordis,” they cried. "We are ready to go. 
Farewell.” 

"Remember not to be late,” Tordis called after them. 

"Mercy!” muttered Cyclone, "how on earth can one be late 
with a watch like mine?” 

The two skipped down the road. Toward Sundal by the 
Fjord they hurried, for they were going to meet the mailboat. 

"My, but Tordis’ wedding day is near,” mused Windy. 








'Tes,” said Cyclone. ''What I enjoy about it is getting the 
mail for her. It’s fun to know before she does herself whether 
Ole has written or not.” 

''I wish I’d have a letter from Father today.” 

"Perhaps you will,” suggested Cyclone. "You know, Windy, 
when I am gone awiking, I shall write you every, every day. I 
shall write you at least once, and maybe twice a day. And some' 
times I’ll send you a package.” 

"Letters and packages just for myself?” 

"Letters and packages just for yourself,” Cyclone repeated, 
"though they’ll mostly be letters.” 

"I bet you will forget about it,” dared Windy. 

"I won’t either!” 

"I bet you will,” insisted Windy. 

"I tell you I won’t forget about it, not ever. I promise that 
I won’t.” 

"Honestly?” Windy wanted to be assured. 

"Honestly!” 

"Cross your heart?” Windy wanted to be more assured. 

"Cross my heart!” Cyclone crossed his heart. 

"Thank you,” said Windy, satisfied. "Now I really wish 
that you could go awiking soon.” 

"Do you?” grinned Cyclone. "Well, I do too. But that 
won’t happen.” 

"Nobody knows.” Windy shrugged her shoulders. One 
might always hope, of course. 

"The boat! The boat!” cried Cyclone at this moment. 
"There she whistles. I want to see her dock. Run!” 

So with flying legs the children ran through the village of 


Sundal. Nearing the wharf, they met other people going the 
same way. 

Hop'la! ’ Windy almost stumbled against a snowplow, for' 
gotten by the roadside. Big and clumsy, it stood beside a bud¬ 
ding wild cherry tree. 

Where rocky land and sky-blue water met. Cyclone and 
Windy stopped. A pointing finger of the great Hardanger Fjord 
reached far into the country here. 

“Ugh!” panted Cyclone, and “Ugh,” panted Windy, as they 
watched the mailboat chug alongside the wooden pier, and 
then dock. 

Goods were discharged and others taken on. Grey-bearded 
Anders was pottering about. He belonged to the wharf, and the 
wharf belonged to him, almost. For Anders was responsible 
for nearly everything that was going on at the wharf. 

“Hullo!” called Cyclone and Windy. Anders raised his 
hand in greeting. “Hullo, hullo, children. How’re Grandpa and 
the baby? And the rest of ’em at Haugen Farm?” 

“Fine, thcink you. We’ve come for mail, if there is any.” 

The old man blinked at the bulky mailbag on the pier. 
“Patience, patience! And I’ll see what I can do for you.” 

A few sacks of flour and cases filled with wares stood in a row. 
Sailors were loading the Uttle boat with outgoing things—crates 
and barrels and milk cans and spring lambs. 

Cyclone was straining his neck and his eyes to the limit— 
were there twenty-nine or thirty-one lambs on the boat now? 
“Stand still for a wink, will you kindly?” he mumbled between 
his teeth. 

Windy scowled. “Can’t be counted. They’re jumping 

[ 57 ] 



around too much. Guess they don't want to be counted now." 

'"Tooo'hooo'toooh!" The ship's whistle blew a lusty blast. 

The children waved their hands after the slowly moving 
steamer. Windy kept her gaze on the shambling, kicking lambs. 
'Toor little lambs," she said. 

Cyclone saw the animals only in a haze, or perhaps he did 
not see them at all. For the captain appeared on the sunlit bridge, 
wearing a uniform trimmed with gold. ''Some day," Cyclone 


[ 58 ] 













The jrying pan had been made into a kitchen clock! 






































promised himself, “some day I’ll be commanding a ship as he 
is doing now, and I’ll be dressed just as he is, too!” 

“Windy,” he burst out of a sudden, “do you think this 
captain knows how to peel potatoes in the curly pigtail style?” 

“If he doesn’t, I feel sorry for him,” was Windy’s prompt 
reply. 

“Hi, children,” called Anders from the shed where he had 
been sorting the mail, “two letters and a box for Miss Tordis, 
and a letter for the young lady here.” 

“Boy, oh boy!” With great strides Cyclone and Windy 
headed for the shed. Then they collected their mail, bade Anders 
farewell and went home as fast as their legs would take them. 
Cyclone carried the cardboard box and Windy carried the 
letters. 

“Tordis! Tordis!” the two cried excitedly when they ar' 
rived at the farm. 

“Father has written me from Hammerfest, and he has writ' 
ten you too,” beamed Windy, “and he has sent you a package!” 

“And a letter from Ole for you,” added Cyclone. 

Tordis threw her hands together in surprise. “There you 
have earned seven pennies each!” She searched for her purse. 
“And here they are.” 

“Thank you, thank you!” 

Curious, the family gathered around the table. “Let’s open 
the package before we read our letters,” proposed Tordis, “shall 
we?” 

“Yes, yes, yes!” 

So Tordis untied the heavy cord from around the box. Then 
she cut an opening across the top. And then she stuck her hand 


[ 60 ] 


deep down into a mass of paper slivers. What she pulled out was 
something in the shape of a medium^sned frying pan. 

“Just what you need,” Mother hastened to say. 

Tordis removed the final sheet of tissue paper. A frying 
pan, indeed! And a very, very special one at that, because it 
had been made—above all things—into a kitchen clock! 

Cyclone and Windy gaped with wonder. “Imagine!’' they 
cried. 

Carefully Tordis took the gleaming copper pan by the 
handle and hung it on a nail in the wall, upside down. Squealing 
and gurgling, Uttle Alf played hide and seek in between the tall 
skirts and trousers that were surrounding him. 

“The very idea!” marveled Mrs. Haugen, “to have a tin 
fork and a knife for clock hands!” 

Grandpa ran a timid finger over the shiny ivory numerals. 

“What time does it show now?” Windy had to know. 

“The knife points to four, and the fork points to six. So 
it’s exactly twenty minutes after six.” 

“Here is the key.” Mr. Haugen passed it to Tordis. “How 
about making her run half a round?” 

“Oh, please!” begged Cyclone and Windy. They were more 
excited than words can tell. 

“Trrr,” crunched the clock at each turn of the key, “trrr.” 
The works were hidden inside of the pan, where once upon a 
time ham and eggs, or pancakes had been frying. 

A final muffled trr of the key, and a delightful tick-a-tock, 
tick'a-tock filled the room. 

“It talks of faraway places,” Cyclone whispered, and his 
heart beat as fast as the clock s tick^a^tock, tick-a^tock. 



Then came the Sunday that was strangely busy for everyone 
at Haugen Farm. In fact, it did not feel like a Simday at all, 
so much there was to do. 


Cyclone peeled and peeled potatoes for Tordis' wedding 
feast, on Tuesday. On top of the turf-covered roof of the bake¬ 
house he sat, on a carpet of green grass and yellow dandelions. 
A basket full of potatoes stood to his left, and a bucket of water 
to his right. Cyclone eyed them suspiciously. ''Now, don’t you 
dare run downhill and away from me,” he told basket and 
bucket. Still, for safety’s sake, he packed a handful of earth 
under each, evening up the slanting side of the roof. Then he 
peeled lustily. 

Grass and dandelions grew on every roof around him, like 
hair standing on end. A bearded goat was eating a late luncheon 
on top of the barn, and another one grazed calmly on the stable 
roof. 


[ 62 ] 













On top of the turf-covered roof of the bakehouse he sat 
















Time and again Cyclone studied his watch intently. "'Three 
potatoes in a minute, and a good and pigtaily peel at that!” 

“Plump!” said each potato as it dropped into the bucket of 
water. 

“Three and a half potatoes in a minute,” Cyclone told him- 
self after a while. And after yet another while, “four potatoes in 
a minute. That’fe fifteen seconds for each little round po-ta-to. 
Ouch! My wrist feels funny and crampy inside.” So for a moment 
he allowed his hand to swing loosely in the air. Then he peeled 
bravely on. 

From messboy in the kitchen to captain of a ship, his Uncle 
Eric’s story was, if he remembered it correctly. “I keep thinking 
and thinking of this story,” Cyclone pondered. “And I suppose 
I must keep right on thinking of it,” he sighed, “or Fll never be 
the captain of a ship.” 

And while Cyclone sat on the roof peeling potatoes and 
pondering, the fragrance of roasting coffee beans came up to him. 

Windy sat down below that very same roof. But she was 
neither peeling nor pondering. Windy was roasting and roasting 
coffee for Tordis’ wedding day and the guests it would bring. 
In a thick cloud of smoke she huddled, by the fire of the bake¬ 
house. ’Round and ’round she turned the handle of the iron 
coffee roaster. 

“Crack,” said the jumping coffee beans in the iron roaster, 
“crackle-crack.” 

A smoky mountain of shiny brown beans grew up on the 
table, as fast as Windy emptied the container—once, twice, then 
for the third and last time. 

Quickly she stepped out-of-doors, into the brilliant sunshine. 


[ 64 ] 


“Pooh, I am smelling of coffee from here to Sundal!” Windy 
tried to shake herself free from smoke much as a dog might shake 
himself free of water. “Hi!” she called to Cyclone on the roof, 
“need help up there?” 

“Na-O'o!” came the bristling answer, “not enough left to need 
help with. See?” He stirred boisterously. “But come up any' 
way, please. It smells as of a million coffee beans.” 

“Ha, ha, does it?” laughed Windy. In a twinkling she had 
climbed the little ladder. In another twinkling she stood on the 
highest rung, peering straight at Cyclone. “You do look busy,” 
she said with admiration, “like a real messboy on a ship.” 

“But I am on a house, and it isn’t even rocking!” 

“Plump!” said the second to the last potato, as it dropped 
into the bucket, and “Plump!” said the very last one. 

“Hurrah!” shouted Cyclone, “my basket is empty. Four 
potatoes I can peel in a minute, but that is absolutely all.” 

“Fast as the wind it is,” praised Windy. “Give me the peel, 
and I will carry it for you.” 

So Cyclone gathered the potato skins into the basket and 
handed it to Windy. Skillfully she climbed down the ladder 
with her load. Cyclone followed with the heavier load of glis¬ 
tening yellow potatoes. 

Halfway to the house they were met by Tordis and little 
Alf. Tordis had a huge wrought-iron key with her. All of a 
quarter of a yard the key was long. “I am going a-rummaging in 
the storehouse,” she called gaily, “want to help me, the two of 
you?” 

“Goodness, yes,” cried Cyclone and Windy. “We’ll be back 
in a minute.” 


[65 ] 


When they returned, Tordis was busy tying a light harness 
around Alf’s chest. The other end of the harness she fastened to 
a post. For Alf was being tethered out in the sunshine. Now 
he could toddle around and play, without fear of rolling down a 
mountain! The two goats on the roofs shook their heads and 
looked curiously at the baby. Was he a lamb or a kid or a small 
person down there? 

''Have a good time, Alf,'' called the others, as they climbed 
the steps of the weather-beaten storehouse. The storehouse was 
built of logs, and the cracks were stuffed with reindeer moss. 
And because the house stood on a hillside, it was made to rest 
on two long front legs and on two short hind legs. Tordis stuck 
the quarter-of-a-yard long key into the lock of the carved door. 

"May I, please?" Without waiting for an answer. Cyclone 
fell upon the key with both his hands. Slowly he turned it. And 
with a grumpy sigh the ancient door sprang open, to let the 
three invaders pass. 

An odor of food and woodsmoke met them. "We'll eat and 
eat on Tordis' wedding day," reflected Windy, "but we can't 
eat everything that's here." Her eyes roamed from the painted 
wooden cake boxes on the floor to the shelves stacked with 
enormous cheeses, and then to the beams under the ceiling. From 
the beams hung sausages and hams and smoked joints of meat. 
And in between there dangled fancy wooden spoons and cups 
and whisks and ladles. 

Tordis walked over to the corner where sheets of flat bread 
were piled as high as Cyclone and Windy were tall. "We might 
collect what we need," she proposed, "and ask Father to help 
us move it into the house afterwards." 


[ 66 ] 



Tordis had a huge wrought-iron key with her 













































''We are like pirates hunting treasures/’ cried Windy, 
"aren’t we?’’ 

"Not quite,’’ laughed Tordis. "Cyclone, will you please 
count twenty-five sheets of flat bread and put them into this 
box here?’’ 

"With pleasure,’’ said Cyclone, setting to work at once. 

Windy helped Tordis gather dainties from jars and crocks, 
as well as from brightly painted tubs and birchwood boxes. 

When these tasks were done, the children followed Tordis 
up the steep stairs that led to the loft. 

"It looks like more and more treasures to be hunted!’’ 
Cyclone felt a bit queer among the huge wedding chests, silver 
mugs, wooden bowls and women’s clothes. 

"This ceiling is the funniest ceiling I ever saw,’’ and Windy 
giggled. "If all those mittens and caps and boots and stockings 
hanging down from the hooks were sausages, just think how 
many sausages we’d have.’’ 

Cyclone burst out laughing. "We’d have a lot of stuff to 
keep our insides warm, and nothing to keep our outsides warm.’’ 

"Exactly!’’ Tordis began taking down some patterned mit¬ 
tens and stockings. Then she made a choice from the woollen 
jackets, vests and petticoats which were hanging on pegs along 
the walls. Cyclone and Windy followed close upon her heels. 
They were most eager to lend a helping hand. 

"Would you care to peep into those over there?” In a 
mysterious manner Tordis pointed at the row of wedding chests. 
"They are packed, you know.” 

"Oh, yes, do open them for us and let us peep!” Cyclone 
and Windy grew more curious every second. 


[ 68 ] 


Tordis lifted the lid of one chest, and then another, and 
another. The first one was filled to the rim with tapestry and 
blankets. The second one held sheets and towels and pillow cases. 
The third one sprang open with a creak and a pop, so stuflPed 
it was with table linen, runners and doilies. Many of these were 
hand^embroidered with national Hardanger work. 

Did you weave and embroider every bit of this yourself?” 
asked Windy in a hushed voice. 

Tordis nodded solemnly. '"Most of it I did myself. Mother 
helped with the sewing. And a few of the things have been done 
by I don t know whom in the family. They’re over a hundred 
years old, and yet brand new.” 

Sometime during this talk Cyclone had edged his way toward 
a square, arched box. He kept eyeing the exciting dragon han¬ 
dles at the sides of it until he could stand it no longer. "What s 
in this one, Tordis, please?” he exploded. 

''You have a fine nose. Cyclone.” Tordis moved to open 
the box. "You smell a treasure before you see one.” 

A tall, round something jingled and tinkled in Tordis’ 
hands, as she lifted it carefully from its hiding place. 

"Oh-h!” cried Windy, "a Hardanger bridal crown! I never 
saw one in all my life, except in pictures.” 

Cyclone’s fingers itched to touch the tinkling silver plates 
and the colored beads that were hanging from the crown. But 
already Tordis had sunk it back into the treasure box. 

"This crown has been in our family for centuries,” she ex¬ 
plained. "Dear me, to think that great-great-grandmothers before 
me wore it on their wedding days, and that at last I shall be 
wearing it myself!’’ 


[ 69 ] 



“I wish that Father could come and see you with it on,” 
sighed Windy. 

''Don’t worry.” Cyclone was quick in finding a way out. 
"ril tell him all about how Tordis looked, if he will have me 
for a messboy.” 

"Thank you. Cyclone,” said Windy absently. 

"Except for Grandpa’s empty sea chest, there’s only one 
left that we haven’t seen,” declared Tordis. "Let’s open it.” She 
raised the heavy, brass-studded lid. 

"Squea-k-k-ss,” it scolded, as if to say, "leave me in peace. 
Why can’t you leave me in peace?” So very ancient was this 
wedding chest that it could do nothing but complain upon the 
least disturbance. Its painted flowers were faded, and its carv- 
ings worn flat. 

"Be quiet and don’t fall shut, if you please.” Tordis gave 
the lid a friendly push upward. Her cheeks glowed. For this 


[ 70 ] 








“Oh-h!” cried Windy, “a Hardanger bridal crown!” 



















































































chest harbored her own as well as her mother’s Hardanger cos¬ 
tumes. Everything was there: white blouses, black skirts, red- 
beaded waists, embroidered aprons, belts and kerchiefs and silver 
chains. 

Windy patted a snow-white kerchief. “May I?’’ laughed 
her eyes. She threw it over her golden hair. 

“Why, that reminds me!” cried Tordis. Her fingers pulled 
out different pieces of clothing from the ancient chest. Lightly 
she tossed them over to the girl. “Try these on. Windy. I 
wonder if they’ll fit you? Cyclone, plecise go downstairs for a 
minute, until we shout ready.” 

At once the older girl began dressing up the younger, talk¬ 
ing in low tones. “I wore this costume when I was your age. 
Windy. If it fits you, I might give it to you for a keepsake.” 

“Hi!” called Cyclone from below. “First I am not allowed 
to see what you are doing, and now I am not allowed to hear 
what you are saying. A little louder, please.” 

“Listen to the boy,” chuckled Tordis and Windy. And then 
they shouted, “Ready!” 

Cyclone rushed upstairs full speed. “Mercy!” he exclaimed 
at what his eyes beheld. And then he stood motionless. “Windy 
of Hardanger, in a Hardanger costume. She likes to be on the 
farm, she likes it better than going a-viking. But, oh, I don’t! I—” 

“Hush, hush. Cyclone. Are you pleased with the dress on 
Windy?” 

Tordis’ question brought him back to earth. “Yes,” he said. 
“But Tordis,” and the words came tumbling out of him, “you 
must not take it off her, I mean, not ever. Windy looks—^she 
looks like the queen of Norway.” 


[ 72 ] 


r 

“Please, Tordis, show us your right hand,” begged Cyclone 
and Windy. 

The church service was ended, and Ole and Tordis had just 
been married. Now they lingered outside the little white church 
of Sundal. The whole village had come together here. Ole smiled 
as he lifted the Hardanger embroidered cloth which covered the 
bride’s hands. 

“Oh,” cried Cyclone and Windy' in admiration, “it looks 
beautiful with a wedding ring on it!” For a moment the yellow 
gold band on Tordis’ right hand sparkled in the June sunlight. 
Then it was again hid under the embroidered cloth. 

“Well, smooth sailing in all sorts of weather,” Cyclone burst 
out airily. But almost at once he felt small and not airy any more. 
True enough, he had been making this little speech to himself 
for the past week. What disturbed him was that even now it 
sounded as if he were telling himself, instead of Ole and Tordis! 
“It’s my special wish for you,” he tried to explain. “See?” 


[73 ] 




Ole’s heavy hand fell on Cyclone’s shoulder. 'Thank you, 
my boy,” he said warmly. “That was well spoken. We will need 
your wish.” 

Cyclone began kicking his right heel with his left toe, he 
felt so muddled. Fortunately, others took his place in wishing 
the newlyweds good luck. Tordis bowed her head lightly. Under 
the glinting crown she wore her long hair loose, down to the 
waist. 

With great care Ole helped her into the horse buggy that 
had taken them to church. There was room for only two on the 
front seat, with a small step behind. On this step stood Tordis’ 
father, not because he was her father—oh, no—but because he 
was the official fiddler of the party! 

The rest of the crowd walked in a gay procession: grand¬ 
fathers and grandchildren, young men and girls from the neigh¬ 
borhood of Sundal, and even from across the fjord. 

“Hi!” Cyclone nudged Windy with his elbow, pointing back 
of him toward the fjord. The mailboat had anchored and the lone 
figure of a man was leaving the pier. 

“What is he doing? He’s watching us through great big 
goggles.” 

“Through field glasses,” corrected Windy. And then she gave 
a start and her hand went to her heart. “It’s Father,” she whis¬ 
pered. “Oh, I am so glad. But perhaps, perhaps he has come to 
take me away from here?” 

“Windy!” shouted Cyclone. “Windy! What are you talk¬ 
ing about? He’s come for the wedding, of course. Let’s run to 
meet him ” Cyclone’s legs felt wobbly and kneeless as he ran, so 
happy was he to see his Uncle Eric. 


[ 74 ] 



''Please, Tordis, show us your right hand'' 





































A minute later the three shook hands and laughed and 
chatted together. Merrily they walked uphill with long strides. 

“This costume of Hardanger fits you too well, my little maid. 
You should not wear it too often!” 

“It’s a gift from Tordis, and she wants me to wear it very, 
very often. But Father, please tell us. Where is your ship?” 
Windy hardly dared to breathe. 

“The poor brig caught a hole in her side. She lies in Bergen 
port and so gives me a week of grace. Aren’t you pleased?” 

“Of course I am. Father.” A faint pink spread over Windy’s 

face. 

“And am I pleased! Oh, I am glad!” Cyclone’s whole heart 
was in his voice. And as Windy said no more, he rambled on. 
“Please, Uncle Eric, may I look through your field glasses, just 
once? I’ve never tried it before.” 

Captain Eric smiled. “Here you are.” Carefully he pulled 
the glasses from the black leather case and handed them to the 
boy. “They are precious, you know.” 

This statement made Cyclone still more excited than he 
already was. For a moment he fumbled with the instrument, and 
then he put it to his eyes, wrong end to. Captain Eric glanced 
at Windy and laid a hushing finger on his lips. 

“What do you see? Nice, clear view?” he asked boisterously. 

“Yes.” Cyclone sounded disappointed. “It’s nice and clear, 
all right, but pretty far away and tiny.” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” Windy laughed at that, and so did her father. 
“Turn them around,” they cried, “and look through the other 
end.” 

Cyclone was very confused. “Oh!” he said, “I thought that 
[ 76 ] 


something must be wrong. Oh-h!"’ he said again, this time full 
of wonder and astonishment, ''I can almost count the beads on 
Tordis’ crown, so big and near they are.’' 

Then back into the leather case the glasses went and Cyclone 
rubbed his eyes. Tordis and her party were small specks away 
up the road. 

When at last the three stragglers caught up with the others, 
they were turning into the yard of Haugen Farm. ''Whoa,” said 
Mr. Haugen to the cream^colored pony, and the buggy stopped 
short. 

"You are like a marvelous surprise package. Uncle Eric,” 
laughed Tordis in great delight. "On Christmas days you snow 
into the house without warning, and on wedding days you fall 
from the blue sky without warning.” 

Gallantly Captain Eric clicked his heels, bowed almost to 
the ground and mumbled, "At your service, Mrs. Tordis.” 

Right then and there Mrs. Haugen appeared, holding a 
silver^mounted bowl of punch. No one was allowed to enter 
the house until the last bit of punch was gone. It did not take 
long, either. 

"Not a drop left,” announced Cyclone, with a final glimpse 
into the empty bowl. 

"No, not a drop,” repeated Windy, as she followed the others 
into the house. 

And then the wedding feast began in earnest. Most of the 
guests had brought a present of something good to eat. They 
found it now on the richly decked table. 

"I hope that I have peeled enough potatoes for us all,” 
Cyclone whispered to his Uncle Eric. 


[ 77 ] 



''And I hope that I have roasted enough coffee,’’ added 
Windy. 

"Well, well! So you have done your part!’’ Captain Eric was 
very much surprised. "Beautiful potatoes,” he considered, "truly 
beautiful. Excellent coffee, too.” 

How hungry everyone was! For a while it seemed as if 
nobody could eat enough food, nor drink enough coffee. But only 
for a while was this true. 

Grandpa was the first one to say, "Thanks for the meal.” 
His eyes shone and he kept nodding his head. Was the old man 
pining for a nap? Or was he perhaps recalling a day such as this 
one, three quarters of a century past? 

"Thanks for the meal! Thanks for the meal!” 

"May it agree with you.” 

[78 ] 














“Best wishes and good luck, Tordis and Ole! Gay, laughing 
voices sounded through the house and yard, accompanied by the 
strains of the fiddle. The music of the fiddler dared not stop, 
for evil spirits must be charmed away, and people must be made 
to dance and dance! Woe to the one who did not swing with the 
bride, at least once. 


[79 ] 














''Deedle-dee, deedle-dee. ONE^two-three, ONE-two-three/’’ 
Feet stamped and hands clapped and heels snapped, for this was 
the tune of the Spring Dance. 




Ole threw Tordis away up high into the air. “Oh, my good- 
ness!” she cried out. 

“Jing-tingding,” tinkled the frightened silver beads and plates 
on the crown. Down came Tordis, her blond hair flying around 
her shoulders. To the left and to the right of Ole she danced 
with little running steps. But at last Ole jumped right in front 
of her, and so the Spring Dance ended. 

“Hopdada,” cried Cyclone, as he bounded ahead in front of 
Windy. “Ready about,” cried Captain Eric, as he sprang for- 
ward in front of Mrs. Haugen. And then they twirled and 
twirled each other around. 

Men and boys danced the Hailing Fling. As fast as fast can 
be, the bow went over the fiddle strings: One-TWO, one-TWO. 




The dancers hopped about and struck their right heels with 
their left hands, and they struck their left heels with their right 
hands. Elbows on the left were kicked by toes on the left, and 
elbows on the right were kicked by toes on the right. 

Then Windy climbed onto a chair, holding Ole’s black felt 
hat at the end of a stick. 

“Naw! Naw!” cried Grandpa, trying his best to kick the hat 
down, but he couldn’t do it. 


[ 80 ] 



































One after another, the village lads leaped into the air and 
after the hat. ''Ha, ha, ha,"’ laughed Windy from the chair. 
"Higher up, higher up.'" 

"Oh hoi! Oh hoi!" Captain Eric had touched the hat with 
his toe, but down it came not. 

"I can coax that hat down," shouted Cyclone, and with a 
mighty bound his white^stockinged legs went up. 

Down tumbled hat and stick, and Windy too, almost. 

"Hurrah, hurrah!" cheered the crowd. "Make a wish for 
yourself, and itll come true. Mark our word. It will come true!" 

Thrills ran up and down Cyclone's spine. He shaped his 
wish. Perhaps it really would come true? His eyes searched for 
Captain Eric. He was in a corner off by himself, twisting and 
twisting his whiskers. 

For the rest of the evening Cyclone danced with Windy. 
And when he was not dancing, he took turns with his father in 
this business of fiddling. For the music must not stop. 

When the stars were dimming in the summer sky, the party 
gathered for a final round of good wishes. Each one of the guests 
emptied a small glass of punch. He then placed his own special 
gift of toast money into it. 

"Your health. Ole and Tordis. And may these coins start 
you out right," the merry voices toasted. 

"Boom," rang in their ears. "Boom. Boom. Boom. These 
were the honoring rifle shots that followed every single toast. 

At last it was time for the guests to depart. Cyclone and 
Windy could barely keep their eyes open any longer. They pulled 
Captain Eric by his sleeve, pointing to the storehouse loft. "That's 
where your room is tonight, and we are to show you up." 

[81 ] 


But they had hardly walked a few steps when Tordis came 
and asked for a word with Uncle Eric. ''Run ahead,” she said to 
the children, "he'll be with you in a minute.” 

"Before I leave for the forest country, I want to ask a favor 
of you,” she set out solemnly. "It's about Windy. Please, do not 
take her away just yet. She is so happy here.” 

"But Tordis, I am lonely—” 

"I know of one who wants to go awiking more than anything 
in the world,” suggested Tordis warmly. 

"What's that?” Captain Eric frowned. But his face changed 
instantly, and he looked as bright and beaming as the man in the 
moon. "By the §ons of Norway,” he cried, "I'll leave the girl 
where she belongs, and I'll take the boy where he belongs! He'll 
make as spunky a skipper as I am, any day. I shall think it over 
and give them time to worry a bit—the rascals!” 





























On the following Sunday the family at Haugen Farm were 
celebrating Midsummer's Eve. For once they had been resting 
until late hours in the morning, so as not to be tired at night. It 
was now half an hour before midnight. Grandpa, Father, Mother, 
Uncle, and children were sitting out-oFdoors on the grassy hillside. 
Only little Alf lay asleep in the house. 

“How light the sky is!" Windy pointed westward. 

“And look at the squinting little moon," added Cyclone. 
“She is so pale that one can scarcely find her." 

“Yes, yes," pondered Grandpa, “it's the victory of light 
over darkness. Won't someone start the fires soon?" 

“It isn't twelve o'clock yet. Grandpa," explained Mrs. 
Haugen. 


[83 ] 








''Seems to be all of that and more/’ the old man grumbled. 
"It must be that you think the tar barrel won’t burn.” 

Mr. Haugen and Cyclone tuned their fiddles. Windy took a 
few dancing steps. Grandpa was right. Was it never going to be 
twelve o’clock? 

At last! 

“Ping-pong-ping-pong, 

Ping-pong-ping-pong, 

Ping-pong-ping-pong.” 

The bell struck from the Sundal church tower, away down in the 
valley. 

"Took a long time to get there,” Grandpa mumbled into his 
beard. 

Midnight! As if by magic, little fires began to flame up, here 
and there, on rocks and mountain slopes, to the left, to the right 
and far across the fjord. The bonfires of Midsummer’s Eve were 
celebrating the longest day of the year. 

Captain Eric put a match to the tar barrel. "Z2;2;2;'pffib2,Z2." 
pifff!” Higher and higher the flames shot into the gray-blue sky. 
In fits and starts new flames sprang up and mingled in mid-air. 

Like shadows. Cyclone and Windy danced around the 
crackling bonfire. They clapped their hands and sang to the 
strains of the fiddle, " ’Twas on a lovely eve in June—” 

When the last tune had died away. Captain Eric snapped his 
fingers. "Tomorrow two of us will be in Bergen!” he exclaimed. 
"And I do hope that for once it will not rain in the Weeping 
City.” Weird shadows played on his face, as he fed the fire with 
birch and beech twigs. 


[ 84 ] 


Cyclone and Windy crouched on the ground. ''Yes,’’ 
thought the one, 'tomorrow Windy and her father will go to 
sea.” 

Yes, ’ thought the other, "tomorrow Cyclone and his 
mother will go to the mountain pasture.” 

Both children stared into the fire and sighed. 

"If Windy could only have stayed for the summer,” Mrs. 
Haugen kept wishing. "She is so swift and jolly at her work. 
Cyclone is clumsy with the cows, at times.” And so she also 
stared into the fire and sighed. 

Mr. Haugen had put his fiddle aside. He and Grandpa, too, 
watched the shooting flames, but without sighing. 

"Isn’t it odd that it should rain so much in Bergen?” Captain 
Eric broke the silence. "You can’t be bom' in that town but 
that a raincoat and umbrella are presented to you, first thing. 
Why, horses shy at a person who does not carry an umbrella!” 

"Much more sensible to live up here in Hardanger,” cried 
Grandpa. "I’ve always said so.” 

"Well—” and Captain Eric decided to tell more of the port 
where his ship lay waiting. "Do you know that once a Bergen 
sailor returned to his home town after years of wandering? Well, 
when he saw the sun was shining, he turned around and sailed 
out again. Poor fellow, he had never seen sunshine in Bergen. 
And so he feared that he had made a mistake and come to the 
wrong place!” 

"Boy, oh boy!” laughed Cyclone, and "Dear me,” chuckled 
the others. "Please let us have more stories,” they begged. Windy 
moved close to Mrs. Haugen. She felt snug and comforted by her. 

And Captain Eric spun yam after yam. He told of Iceland 

[85 ] 



where he had been, and of the North Pole where he had not been. 
''Now, listen to this,"' he continued. "One day I sailed north, for 
the first time with my very own ship, into the port of Hammer- 
fest.'’ 

"Hammerfest, you say?’’ Cyclone’s head jerked forward. 
His eyes almost swallowed Captain Eric. 


[86 ] 





















One day I sailed north, for the first time 




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''Yes, to Hammerfest, where cod liver oil comes from. Air 
and water and breakfasts and dinners taste of it, and everything 
else smells of it. Well, then we moved on to the North Cape, 
where the sun does not rise in the east, nor set in the west.'’ 

Captain Eric made a pause. In the shine of the flickering 
flames he caught a glimpse of Cyclone’s eager face. "Now,” it ran 
through his mind, "now or never. Just how will I put it?” His 
eyes roamed over the group. Finally they rested on Mrs. Haugen, 
who sat up rigidly. 

She was half happy and half sad. She was happy because 
of Windy snuggling against her shoulder, and she was sad over 
having to lose her. And so her heart was on her tongue when she 
asked, "Couldn’t you leave Windy with us this one summer long?” 

"Please do, do, do,” pleaded three different voices. 

"Oh, Father!” cried Windy as she flew to his side. 

Captain Eric grabbed at his whiskers, he was that startled. 
"This is very strange,” he murmured. "It’s what I have been 
thinking of these very same minutes.” Slowly his lips parted in 
a wide smile. 

"I’ll give Windy to you for another spell, if, well, if—” 
Captain Eric paused mysteriously. He blinked at Cyclone. "What 
about potatoes, young man? Remember, from messboy in the 
kitchen to captain of a ship, hm?” 

"Yes, sir, four potatoes in a minute in the curly pigtail style.” 

"Can you do it?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Want to go awiking as messboy in the morning and as 
fiddler at night?” 

"Yes, sir! Please!” 


[ 88 ] 





She was half happy and half sad 













"'Well,'' announced Captain Eric in a booming voice, '^Fll 
give you Windy for another spell if you will give me Cyclone for 
a spell/’ 

Cyclone and Windy jumped to their feet. They both opened 
their mouths to shout for joy. 

But Captain Eric interrupted. ''Wait, let the grown-ups 
have first chance.” 

So the children shut their mouths again. It was not easy. 

"I agree with your proposal,” said Cyclone’s mother solemnly, 
"and thank you. Uncle Eric.” 


[ 90 ] 



















"‘I agree too,’’ nodded Grandpa, ''and my old sea chest be- 
longs to the boy from this day on.” 

All eyes now rested on Cyclone’s father. 

"If you ask me,” his words pounded slowly, "I’ll tell you this. 
I like to keep Windy with us. Of course, I do. But as for Cy- 
clone—” He shook his head and turned it this way and that. 
"Cyclone is a farmer’s lad, and a farmer he shall be! Once he 
goes awiking, he’ll never come back, never.” 

"Oh, yes,” Captain Eric put in mildly, "he will return to 
you.” 

"I tell you he won’t,” rumbled Mr. Haugen. "I wouldn’t 
myself, if I were he. I mean—a-hum—I wouldn’t be going in the 



first place. I mean, Fd stay right where I am.’’ Mr. Haugen 
cleared his throat. For it seemed to him that he had blundered. 
''Oh, fiddlesticks,” he cried at last, "it’s late and I am sleepy. Take 
him to the North Cape then. But leave Windy to pick cloud¬ 
berries.” 

"Oh-h! Thank you a hundred million times. Mother, Father, 
Grandpa, Uncle Eric,” exploded the children. 

They looked at each other. 

"Thank you. Cyclone,” bubbled Windy, "that you do not 
care enormously for cows and goats and sheep, up in the mountain 
pasture. Oh! I am so happy.” 

"If this is not a wish come true,” beamed Cyclone. "Thank 
you. Windy, that you do not like it terribly to go a-viking. Be¬ 
cause I do! I do!” 

And then the two just danced and sang for joy. Around the 
glimmering, shimmering bonfire they danced, in the dawn of Mid- 
summemight. 




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